


The Elements of a Happy Life

by BendyDick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Attempted Murder, Child Abuse, Drugs, Dubious Consent, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 03:52:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BendyDick/pseuds/BendyDick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is sick of putting up with his parents fighting and Sherlock's growing tired of facing his arse-hole dad. Together can they be the support system they both desperately need to make it out of high school alive?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John Watson was laid out on his bed, his face smashed against the cotton fabric of his pillow and eyes squeezed shut. His dad was drunk yet again.

He could hear his dad's voice echo through the house from down stairs, "Why would I listen to a cunt like you! HUH? I should have never married you! Cause I just can't stand you!"

His mothers short sniffling remarks trying to quite the drunken man, "Please George, please calm down"

"Shut up woman, Shut up I say! I am the man in this house. This is my house, I will do what I want!"

It was pathetic really, how normal this all seemed. /Shut your eyes, nothing is going to happen tonight./ It was almost funny how the banging of objects hitting walls didn't startle John anymore. He closed his eyes tighter until red marks drifted across his eyelids.

The ruckus was all the same at this point. His dad would scream about a divorce he would never get and his mom would cry and beg him to stay. It didn't matter when it had started. That might have been because John couldn't remember or because he knew the threats tonight were useless and the promises tomorrow pointless. All that did matter was, it was never going to stop and his dad was never going to actually leave. No matter how loud his voice got or how much booze he managed to consume.

John started to hum the Blue is the Colour to himself as his dad threw something against wall and his mom started crying louder. He pushed his pillow harder against his face as he began to drift to sleep. The sound of his parents faded in the void of sleepiness, still humming to himself he floated into unconsciousness.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Waking up was always the worst part. Dragging himself up off the floor to the bath room to clean off the blood and apply ointment to the bruise was bad but, the worst part, Sherlock thought to himself, was not the pain or the looks his peers gave him as he walked through school. No, the worst part was waking up to find he was still alive.

It hadn't always been this way. When mummy was still alive his dad would have never hit him. Hell even with Mycroft around things were better. Mycroft would at least protect him a little bit. Since Mycroft had left though his dad had begun to get steadily worse.

With a groan he began to get up off the floor, first rolling on to his bruised stomach, then bringing his hands and knees under him and straightening out to a full stand. His legs cried in pain and he had to blink away the stars he saw before slowly making his way to the bathroom down the hall.

He could feel the crusted blood under his nose and on his chin. Right away he felt heavy and numb but it was no worse than any of the times before. It was no worse than the first night it had happened or the night his brother had abandoned him.

When he got to the bathroom he flipped on the light, filling the sterile white walled room with an overly bright glow. Looking into the mirror he could see that his nose had been bleeding, his bottom lip was swollen and split, and his right cheek was a gruesome blue shade. Wincing he lifted his soiled shirt to his chin. It wasn't bad. Bruising along the left side of his ribs and a few good sized spots on his back. It didn't look any worse than the bruises he received from the bully at his old school before being expelled.

Sighing he turned on the faucet and began cleaning off the dried blood, hissing as he rubbed against his cheek. He quickly finished and applied ointment to his back, chest and face before swallowing 4 200mg ibuprofens dry and hobbling to his room.

As sleep started to claim his tuckered out body he thought of tomorrow. His escape from this hell, if only for 8 hours. He would be starting at a new school, for a second he allowed himself to hope maybe this time it'd be different. Maybe this time the kids would be smart and the teachers insightful and it would not just be a place to go where his father couldn't get to him. Even if it had only been a second it gave him the strength he would need to get out of bed in the morning.

Maybe this time... he could make a friend.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock managed to make it to the last period of the day at the new school. The first day was always hard. People stared at you when you walked down the hall, and rumors followed where ever you went. It didn't help that he was starting half way through the school year and was two years younger than everyone in year 13.

People could never tell just by looking at him; he had hit a growth spurt a couple months past and was about 5'10" now. He had dark brown hair that curled around his forehead in lose ringlets, light blue cat like eyes and was to skinny for his build, which helped him appear taller. According to the girls, and some of the boys, in his old schools he was attractive. His older looks didn't help though when the teachers kept introducing him as some child prodigy for having skipped two years.

He wished the teachers wouldn't mention that he was so much younger; in-fact he wished the teachers wouldn't introduce him at all. He'd be perfectly happy fading into the back ground. Not having anyone notice him. It was always when his peers noticed him that the rumors and teasing would start.

There were already rumors going around about him by the last period, but most were just your typical gossip. There were whispers about him being gay, someone had said he was a stalker (apparently he had a friend at one of Sherlock's old school who told him how the strange boy knew everything about everyone), even more people claimed he liked to get into fights and he got off on being beat up. The last rumor seemed to have lots of people talking, probably because they could still see the yellowish blue bruising along his cheeks.

By the time Chemistry rolled around, he was really sick of it. "Hello students, I hope your weekends were good and filled with studying." Mr. Berry said as the late bell rang. He looked like your classic teacher, a middle aged white man with thinning brown hair and a growing girth. "It's my pleasure to introduce our new student, Sherlock Holmes please stand up.”

He did as the teacher asked with a small huff, pushing his chair away from the desk and keeping his glaze towards the ground. It wasn't that he was shy, he just abhorred repetition and this would be the 6th time being introduced today. Though most of the kids in this class had already been in his previous classes today Sherlock still felt everyone's eyes on him,

"This is Sherlock, he just got switched from a different school, and Mr. Holmes is a very bright student I have heard. He skipped both 7th and 8th years. I hope we can all make him feel comfortable here, right class."

The class murmured their agreement as Sherlock took his seat and Mr. Berry started the lesson

They were learning about titration, acids and bases. All things Sherlock had known since his first Chemistry set when he was 6. It was one of the first and most simplistic lessons in chemistry; also Mr. Berry had a way of making it even duller with his long winded explanations. He tuned out most of the class, and focused on his classmates.

Several of them were sexual active with one another, some were doing drugs (none doing anything harder than over the counter pills probably jacked from their parents.), and there were girls passing notes about him in the back of class, and two of the boys upfront wanted to join the military like their fathers. All this information was tedious and boring but not more boring than hearing about the double displacement reaction NaOH and HCl performed during the titration process in possibly the flattest way possible.

As the class dragged on Sherlock felt his eye lids start to droop and the flat surface of the desk look more and more appealing. It wasn't until he heard the teacher yell his name did he realize he had actually fallen asleep.

"Sherlock!" He opened his eyes and blinked several time, "As I was saying, John's lab partner is out sick today and since you are new and don't have a partner you will be teaming up with him."

Sherlock lifted his head off his desk and looked around, most of the class was split up into pairs and working their way to the lap space in the back of the room, all but a short blonde haired boy.

He was one of the boys who wanted to join the military, strong and stocky with dark blue eyes. Most likely on a sports team. The boy walked over to him with a big smile and out stretched a hand.

"Ello, I'm John. Mike's out, so I guess that makes us partners." Sherlock shook John's hand and nodded.

The two walked to the only open lab area and started the lab. It was a simple lab; you take a base and put two drops of phenolphthalein, mix, and then add an acid until it turned pink. When it turned pink you knew your solution was titrated.

Sherlock let John do most of the work and just wrote the notes in a note book. The boy was very careful about his lab procedure, making sure all the equipment was laid out in front of them before ever mixing the NaOH and phenolphthalein. He didn't do a single thing wrong until he started to drop the HCl in. He was squeezing to hard and allowing more than one single drop to come out.

"Stop." Sherlock said glaring at the other boy’s hand. John looked over at him startled and wide eyed.

"You are squeezing too hard. If you keep it up we won't be able to determine when the NaOH was fully titrated. Just... squeeze the dropper lighter so only one drop comes out." To Sherlock's surprise his partner smiled at him.

"Thanks, I didn't notice. It would suck to have to do it all over again."

John kept smiling while finishing the lab. He made sure not to apply to much pressure to the eye dropper and they were down with the project before their peers.

Sherlock had been staring at John since his remarks on his improper handling of the H Cl. The boy was no different than all the other kids in the class. Unremarkable in all ways. He had an older sibling, two parents that were still together, an A and B student. Just ordinary, but he hadn't gotten mad at him for his outburst. Most people found him rude and stuck up. John had just smiled.

Once they were done putting up the equipment the two sat in the desks at the front of the class. John had sat next to him. He had chosen to sit next to him. Sherlock had been putting the last of his things in his bag when the boy next to him cleared his throat.

"So, you seem like you really enjoy chemistry, I am rubbish at it, but... er maybe you'd like to..." Sherlock looked over at him, an angry glare on his face.

"You think if you make friends with me then I'll do your homework for you?" Sherlock continued to glare at him, his blue eyes fierce with anger.

"No, I just thought maybe..."

"What, you thought maybe I would be your free ride. I think not. I will not do your bloody homework for you just because you act nice to me. I am not your run of the mill nerd and bullying won't change my mind. Bye, John"

Just then the end of school bell rang out. Sherlock picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder, not waiting for the teacher to excuse them, he walked out the door.

His hands were shaking. He really had thought that maybe John would be different. He seemed different, nice, and nonjudgmental. Well, it didn't matter he had been wrong. He didn't make mistakes often, and he promised himself he wouldn't again. No one wanted to be friends with the freak smart kid with bruises all over their face. No one.


	3. Chapter 3

The rest of John’s week was uneventful. Mike came back Tuesday, so there was no need to be partnered with Sherlock anymore. He thought this was probably for the best; their last conversation hadn't been the friendliest of interactions.

John couldn't stop himself from blaming it on the new kid. He blew up in John's face the second the older boy tried to asked if he wanted a study partner. What John had gathered from the kid's rapid speech it seemed like he thought John wanted to cheat off him.

This hadn’t been the case. John wasn't good with science. He never was. The math and reasoning never seemed to make sense. He was much better in writing, sports, and history; anything really that involved people and emotions. Sherlock seemed to have a knack at explaining things and they seemed to work well together. Each one doing their own thing, mindful of their duties and finishing well before the allotted time. It seemed natural for them to study together. However, the new boy didn't seem to think so. He also seemed perfectly happy to work alone.

John noticed that he always seemed to be alone. During lunch he would sit in the library, during passing periods he never lingered in the halls to talk to anyone, and as soon as the bell rang in their last period he was the first out the door.

Though John didn't blame the kid for sticking to himself. The longer he was at the school the more rumors got started. Since the first day, John had heard things about the strange boy. Some kids were saying he was a masochist and that's why he was all bruised up. Others were worse, like that he was caught sucking a teacher’s cock at his old school and the boy's dad tried to beat him straight. The schools general conscience seemed to be that he was strange and needed to be kept far away.

John didn't buy into any of it. Sure he had noticed the bruising on the kids face, but it was general knowledge that he was removed from his old school for getting into a fight.

Well, maybe not general knowledge. Mike had told John when he got back on Tuesday that he knew who Sherlock was. One of Mike's mates went to the same school the new kid had; apparently Sherlock had gotten into a fight with some of the kids in his grade. It wasn't the first time this had happened because when the headmaster found the brawl going on outside the gym he had swiftly gathered up the young boy and expelled him.

Mike had also told him how Sherlock had a big mouth. He claimed the boy was just creepy. He always seemed to know everything about someone even if it was the first time meeting them. The boy was always spouting off to anyone, teachers, peers, parents. He had no respect or self control. Mike seemed to think the boy must have learned some lesson to kept his mouth shut cause he didn't seem to be as talkative as Mike's friend's had described him.

In fact, Sherlock barely seemed to speak at all during the time he and John had been partners. In chem he kept his head down, never answered or asked questions. In the halls John never heard him utter a sound. It seemed like he was in a constant day dream of sorts.

It was Friday now and John was on his walk home when he heard the sounds of boys screaming.

"You stupid sod! You think you're so smart. How about I teach you something!"

John heard the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh and someone letting out a grunt. The noises were coming from behind one of the schools storage sheds only a few yards from where John was.

John was struggling with himself; he didn't want to involve himself in a fight, he was already being watched closely after punching a kid who dared to call a female friend of his a 'bloody vag licking lesbo'. However, the sound of more boys jeering and soft groans of pain made his stomach twist in such a knot that nothing could have stopped him from helping the poor soul.

John shouldered his back pack off and ran towards the noise behind the building.

When he got there what he saw twisted his stomach tighter than it had been. He felt a surge of adrenaline and anger. There were three boys beating one small boy. Two were taking turns punching the kid and the largest was holding the boy up.

The boy wasn't fighting against the older boys, he had his face turned down at the ground and other than the grunts and groans each time one of the boys punched him, and he was making no noise. Even from where John stood he could see blood on the small boys white button up school shirt and the sound of flesh being pounded made him want to throw up. The contents of the boy’s bag seemed to be spread out behind the largest kid as if they had been digging through it for something.

It only took John a few seconds to recognize the small boy, his dark brown curly hair hid his face, but he knew it was Sherlock.

John took a second to compose himself. Even in his adrenaline induced haze he had enough sense not run up to his classmates and try to overpower them. There was no way that would work. All three of them were on the rugby team; they were taller than him and quite possibly stronger, but all 5'6" of John could be quite terrifying if he wanted it to be.

Oh boy right now he wanted it to be.

John took two large breaths and counted to 10 before walking up to the group. His hands were balled into fists at his sides and shaking. The group didn't seem to even notice he was there.

"What do you guys think you are doing?" He spat with all the anger he could muster. All four boys turned and looked at him. The one holding Sherlock was the first to speak.

"Teaching smarty here a lesson. We don't mind teaching you one too, Watson." The boy’s name was Sebastian Wilkes; head of the rugby team but not from talent. His daddy paid his only son’s way through life. Buying Seb anything he wanted, though daddy's money seemed to do nothing for the boy’s pitiful grades.

John stood still glaring at the group. His hands were shaking with the need to punch something. Seb was smirking at him.

"Think you're tough. Justin show him what being a hero gets you."

One of the boys that were punching Sherlock started to walk towards John. He was at least 6 foot, obviously athletic with his wide back and thick neck. John took a breath, barely containing a small smile. Justin's hands were wrapped into tight fists as he approached. The bigger boy swung first as John ducked, using his short height to an advantage, and made a quick jab into the other boys solar plexus. The punch knocked the wind out of the larger boy causing him to fall to the ground coughing.

"Who's next?" John didn't try to hide his smile, the two boys exchanged glances before Sebastian let go of Sherlock's arms and with one last kick to his limp frame the boys started to walk away. Justin, still red faced, quickly got to his feet and ran after his friends.

John quickly went to Sherlock's side. He was on his hands and knees coughing on to the ground. Up close John could see his face was bruised, lip was split and nose was bleeding. If the boy had put up a fight, he clearly stopped coughing and looked up at John with a puzzled look.

"Why did you do that?" John looked at the boy confused.

"Well, I couldn't just walk on with them beating you up."

"Yes you could, everyone else does."

"I am not everyone else." That seemed to change Sherlock's mood, the corners of his mouth turned up in a small smile. With a groan the boy maneuvered to his feet and proceeded to pick up his scattered things. Without even thinking about it John started to help him.

"They got you pretty good, didn't they? Want to come to my house. I have a first aid kit." Sherlock took the stack of papers from John's hands and shoved them unceremoniously into his messenger bag and shook his head no.

"I'll be fine..."

"Really, my house is just up the street. It'll be fast. It's the least I can do..." Sherlock looked scared and awkward as he slung his bag over his shoulder. After a few awkward seconds the boy nodded and followed John down the street. They walked back to where John threw off his back pack and then headed north towards John's house.

The walk was quiet and slightly awkward. Neither of boys said anything as they walked. John's house was only about 200 feet from the school in a small nice neighborhood with cookie cutter type houses all lined up on either side of the street. His was a clean off white colour two story with a small lawn and a blue front door. He lived there since he was born; it fit his family's needs and was affordable.

John ushered Sherlock through the door and into the bathroom, quickly finding the first aid kit and motioning to Sherlock to sit on the toilet. John left the bathroom to grab a wash cloth and when he came back Sherlock was sitting quietly on the toilet head down slightly. He got the cloth wet and walked over to Sherlock, "This might sting a tad..." He said before washing the blood and dirt off the other boys face.

Sherlock didn't even flinch as he went over his bruises. Soon all the dirt and blood was off and John could see that the boy would need ointment on some of the cuts and would have quite a few bruises on his face and arms. His pale face made the blue-black of the bruise stand out he started in on applying triple antibiotic cream to the cuts.

It surprised John how natural this seemed, to be rubbing another boy’s face with cream. He was so close to Sherlock that the boys breathe felt warm against his stomach and arms. Being this close to another person usually made John a bit uncomfortable, but with Sherlock it didn't seem to faze him. The other boy seemed just as comfortable. He just sat there, not looking up at John, and allowing him to rub in and clean his face. A kind of peaceful silence filled the room. Once all the bruising and cuts were taken care of on Sherlock's face John took a breath,

"So, this might be... uncomfortable, but could you take off your shirt so I can... "

"No! I am fine. Look, I am just going to leave. “Sherlock jumped off the toilet picking up his bag and rushed out of the bathroom without even looking at John. John was left so stunned by the abrupt departure he barely heard Sherlock say thank you before closing the front door.

John stood in his bathroom for a while both shocked and puzzled by the boys reaction. He knew some people could be shy about their bodies but he never seen someone run so fast after being asked to take their shirt off. He felt bad for having asked; he was only trying to be nice. Sherlock did seem to be a strange boy, just not in the way people at school seemed to think. He just seemed to be shy and awkward. John started to put up the first aid kit. He had no clue why, but he couldn't stop thinking of Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you are enjoying this. Next chapter soonish! Thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

“Do you think you are worth anything, boy?” Sherlock’s dad demanded to know as he punched the boy in the stomach with a sickening crack. He had been at this for almost an hour now. He would scream and hit; the whole time getting more violent. 

Sherlock’s previously busted lip was bleeding again along with his nose. The blood trickled down his face making it hard to breathe properly. He was trying to stand as tall as he could, the way his dad told him to stand for these beatings; it took all his remaining strength to focus and not double over and protect his stomach from the pounding. His body shook as he held back the tears and screams that he desperately wanted to let out, but he was too well trained for that.

Anyways; he knew he deserved this. He had failed again. He had been given simple instructions when he was expelled from the last public school willing to take him with in the area. He was not to fight again. When he heard his dad pulled into the drive way he felt like crying. He knew it was obvious that he had gotten into a fight. There was no point hiding, so he stood in the front hall waiting for his dad to see him. 

When the door opened it only took Sherlock’s dad a few seconds to recognize the new bruises. He instantly started screaming at the boy. Slamming the door shut as he lifted his hand to back hand Sherlock across the face. They didn’t move from the front hall since. Sherlock just hoped it would be over soon. He wanted to beg his dad to let him sneak back to his room, his sanctuary. Let him sleep. He was so tired. He couldn’t voice his desires thou. He knew better at this point.

Sherlock’s legs buckled under him as his dad punched him in the gut knocking the wind out of him. He heard him utter something at him, but his whole head was fuzzy it didn’t make sense. Then there was nothing. Sweet nothing. His lips quivered and he gave into his tears. Crying himself to sleep in the entry of the house. He wished John was there to help him up, to bring him up stairs. It was the first time he could remember that he dreamt of something other than a dark hole, something other than falling.

He didn’t want to move when he woke up in the morning. Moving meant he was still alive. Moving meant pain. He pulled himself up off the cold tile floor with a groan as every muscle in his body felt like it was tearing in two. It was light outside and it didn’t seem like his dad was home. Slowly he began to pull himself up the stairs to the bathroom where he patched himself up and washed away the blood caked to his face. He made his way to his room. Quickly throwing off his uniform and changing into lose fitting pajamas. He didn’t leave his room, not when his dad came home in the evening, not when his stomach rolled with hunger. 

Monday morning he snuck out of his room at the crack of dawn running straight down the steps and out the front door. He got to school at 6 am, three hours early. Not that he minded. It was quiet this early and no one bugged him when he would sit outside his first period class with his nose buried deep in a book. It was relaxing to sit with the chilly morning breeze blowing over him messing with his dark brown curls. It made coming to school worth being pushed around in the lunch line, called degrading names, and sitting through dull lectures if he could relax and breathe without the fear of his dad busting through his door to teach him a lesson. 

He didn’t skip lunch. His stomach was rolling with hunger after not eating for nearly three days. As he stood in the lunch line waiting to be served he remembered why he avoided eating at school. The noise of idiotic chatter made his head throb and behind him boys kept making humping actions. No one would put their hands on him during school hours but as he walked past tables he heard names be called out to him and threats to beat him senseless. He kept his head down as he went through the line, watching his feet as he progressed. He went through the periodic table in his mind like a sort of mantra to keep him from saying anything back. He grabbed his tray and downed as much food as he could before he couldn’t take the taunting and teasing his classmates directed at him. Then dumped the remainder in the trash and bolted to hide himself away in the library. 

The library was his safe haven. There wasn’t anyone in there during lunch besides the librarian who was a sweet little elderly woman who never had kids so she treated all the ones she met as her own. It was quiet, peaceful and calm. A place he could curl up to sleep or read. 

He rushed through the door nearly knocking Ms. Hudson over. He gave her an apologetic smile that looked more like a grimace as he ran to the back of the room. Furthest from the other student who wanted nothing more than to see him cry. He didn’t notice the other boy sitting on the couch beside him for a good 3 minutes. When the boy finally spoke Sherlock yelp and jumped to his feet. “Sherlock? You okay?” 

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded slowly sitting back down on the couch and looking over at John. He didn’t know why John would be in a library. He’d never seen him there before and he noticed just about everything. 

“I well… You… I know you sit here sometimes and I …” John swallowed hard before continuing to stutter out his explanation, “I wanted to check on you.” When he finished his cheeks were a faint red. Sherlock stared at him in disbelief. No one ever cared to check on him for any reason and having John here poking around made his stomach and heart do strange things. On one side he what’d to tell the boy off for digging in his business on the other he wanted to cry and he wasn’t quite sure why. 

“I am fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock snapped crossing his arms with a glare. 

“Well, you looked pretty roughed up and I didn’t get to see if they hurt your stomach. I just wanted to check in I guess.”

“I am fine.”

“I can see that.” John replied rolling his eyes. So he had noticed the new bruise. Sherlock felt his face relax as he studied John’s body. He wasn’t like the other students or people at school. Nobody noticed if Sherlock showed up with new bruises on his arms or a busted lip because they all figured someone got the jump on him. It didn’t matter to them if the brat got his arse kicked for a rude comment or quip. Sherlock bit his lip and looked away from the other boy. 

“Thanks…” 

John relaxed against the seat and settled in doing his homework. Sherlock didn’t know how to react, if he should get up and leave the boy to work in peace or, just maybe, he wanted Sherlock to stay. He waited to be told to scram that his ugly alien face was making the boy sick. It never came. John never screamed anything at him. Every lunch when Sherlock got to the library John was waiting for him. He started to expect John to be there, even look forward to it. John would listen to him rant about anything, he seemed generally interested in it too, and he’d ask questions and make comments. Sherlock started to wait all day for lunch, then chem and some days John would even walk him home. The bullies always left him alone on those days and they seemed to becoming more and more regular. 

Home was still just as bad. John had asked him several times about his reoccurring bruise. Sherlock still would swear he’d got them from a kid after or before school. Tell him they didn’t hurt. He could tell John didn’t buy it but he never pried and Sherlock was grateful for it.   
It was starting to get cold and snow was only weeks away when Sherlock got a letter from Mycroft. He didn’t talk to his brother often after he had abandoned him. Their father always intercepted the calls saying Mycroft was a trader and an imbecilic. The brothers had tried to email but those too were cut off and Sherlock leant his lesson the hard way, leaving him in bed for almost a week and his laptop in bits. Now the only form of contact Sherlock ever got from his brother was through coded letters. His dad was too lazy to ever get the mail himself.

The code was simple if you understood it. The salutation was the cipher. It was a random bunch of letters; ie ursace, none of the letters could repeat. Then you’d start the alphabet with your salutation and continue on in order, ursacebdfghijklmnopqtvwxz making sure none of the letter’s you had in the cipher were repeated. The first letter in the cipher was a, the next b and so on down the alphabet. Making pdcohmsh, Sherlock. 

A decipher looked like this:   
U r s a c e b d f g h I j k l m n o p q t v w x y z  
A b c d e f g h I j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z

Sherlock had gotten good enough at reading the letters he no longer needed to make a cipher, even in his head. The letter looked to him as if it was written in simple English. 

Hyslcwa,   
Dear brother. I know I haven’t kept in touch and for that I am terribly sorry. I heard you got expelled again. Not pleased, think of mummy. However this is not a letter in which I will scold you, I am sure father does that much too much still. In the upcoming months I have been granted vacation time and there is only one place I am both dying to see and fearful of dying if I do see, excuse my attempt at poetry. I find girls like to be romanced; though all my attempts do seem futile. I am coming home brother dear. Please don’t tell father. I won’t be coming home to see him. I will pick you up after school and take you to a violin concert. Assuming you still enjoy the awful scratching noise the instruments make. Then find a nice dinner to have some deserts. I do so miss Bently’s Dinner coco craze pie.   
Best of wishes,  
Mycroft. 

Sherlock could barely control his excitement. He dropped the bundle of bills and ads as he read the note over and over just to make sure he read it correctly. He hadn’t seen his brother since he went to college that was 4 years ago. If My came back he could take Sherlock away. Take Sherlock to London. Keep him safe and protect him. Sherlock folded the letter into a small square and shoved it in his back pocket before gathering the mail and bringing it inside.

John. He had to tell John about the news. He would love Mycroft. They could pick on him about his love of cakes. Maybe Sherlock could convince his brother to take both of them to the concert. He’d never been to a concert. Hearing good violin live would be a lot different than the scratchy playing he use to do when mummy was alive. It was the Sunday. He’d have to wait to tell John. 

The rest of the day Sherlock spent hiding away in his room rereading the letter and making a list of all the things he could tell his brother. He would tell him about John, about how he had beat off the bullies, about how good his grades were, the books he was reading. There was a really good one titled Captain Singleton that had him pretending he was a pirate in his day dreams. 

He reread the letter at least 100 times by Monday morning. When getting dressed he slipped the letter into the back of his pants and headed out the door. Early as usual he borrowed another book from the library, Treasure Island, and wanted to finish it in the quiet halls of school also he hoped he might catch John early. 

Sherlock didn’t see John at all. He didn’t see him in passing periods, in the lunch line- not very surprising, John packed his own lunch- or in the library. When Chem rolled around Sherlock and he wasn’t in class Sherlock was certain he wasn’t at School. He figured his friend must have gotten sick; but his heart still felt like it had set up a residency in his stomach as he walked, by himself, home. 

There was something white pinned to the front door and as he approached he could make out Mycroft’s cursive scribbles. His hand flew to his back pocket and he felt nothing. He mentally cursed himself and he felt his stomach and heart feel like they just got torn from his chest. Taking steady breaths to calm himself he finished walking slowly up to the door. There was his letter, with a cipher written on to the bottom right hand corner in heavy strokes. His father’s heavy strokes. Sherlock’s throat felt like it was closing in on itself and he had half a thought to run. Run far away. Not to open the door and see his dads angry face. 

He shoved those thoughts far away and pushed open the heavy door to see his dad sitting in one of the chairs in front of a fire that was always on in the fall and winter. He could see a half empty bottle of scotch and a shot glass wrapped in either one of his father’s hands. 

“Are you going to be a traitor too?” The man asked with his face still turned from Sherlock’s. Sherlock wanted to scream no, beg for forgiveness, make up a lie that the letter was old and that My never showed. He hung his head and walked in front of his father’s chair making no noise. Trying to prove he was a good son. A good boy. “Going to leave me here all by myself?” The man set down the scotch and glass with a small clink and stood. He slapped Sherlock across the face nearly sending him into the lit fire. 

“No! I am- I won’t ever I am good! I have been so good!” Sherlock cried from the floor pulling himself back to his knees, using his big blue eyes to plead with his father. 

“Your stupid Brother left. You going to follow him?” Sherlock shook his head vigorously. “How come I don’t believe you?” He gripped a hand around Sherlock’s curls and dragged him across the living room floor towards the bathroom. Sherlock cried as he felt his hair start to be pulled out again. Sherlock remembered the last time he had been caught talking to Mycroft. All the pain. The computer being smashed against his head repeatedly. He couldn’t take that again.

His father yanked him by his curls all the way to the bathroom, leaning Sherlock against the white toilet. “You are so full of bullshit!” The man screamed before shoving Sherlock’s face into the basin of water. He held him there until Sherlock was shaking and kicking fighting for breath. His mouth was gasping for air in the toilet as he panicked. He felt the water trickle down the back of his throat and up his nose. He shook with all his might afraid his dad would actually do it. 

His father ripped his head back letting the boy gag and cough up water, gasping for fresh air and each breath forcing more water out. Then he slammed the boy’s head into the water again, pushing Sherlock’s face into the bottom of the bowl. Sherlock was screaming into the water. Tears falling out but being swept away. His lungs were burning, his throat was burning, his nose was burning. His head was spinning with a head ache and soon his mind just blanked. He felt like he was floating slightly. Drifting away from his body. All of a sudden he was ripped back to pain. It filled every space of his body as he realized he was throwing up on the tile, a shivering, sniveling mess on the floor.

 

“Get out.” Was all Sherlock needed to hear to pulling his shaking limbs under him and run awkwardly out the door. He ran down the street ignoring his sopping wet clothes or the sick that covered his body. He didn’t know where he was running until he stopped outside a familiar blue front door. He tore off his shirt that was covered in sick and threw it in the garden then zipped up his hoody again. He didn’t see the moving van or hear the muffled shouts from inside. He knocked frantically trying his best not to cry. 

John answered the door peeping his head out from behind the cracked door. “Sherlock I can’t hang out now. I just leave please.” He didn’t even look Sherlock before he slammed the door shut in the young boy’s face leaving him in the cold with nowhere to go.

John wasn’t a friend. Sherlock had been so stupid to think any different. He started to ball harder, forgetting his dignity, forgetting people could see him. He wondered down the streets and alleys, getting closer to the heart of the city. He wished his father had just killed him. That brief moment when he felt like he was flying had been so nice. No pain. He almost forgot what it felt like for his body not to ache. He only noticed how far he had walked when he heard a scratchy voice from behind him. 

“You look like you got somethings you wants to forget, am I right kid?” 

Sherlock sniffled and turned around using the backs of his hands to wipe away the tears and snot going down his face. He nodded to a scruffy looking middle aged man who was missing a tooth and looked like he crawled his way out of an olive oil factory. 

“I’ve been there kid. What would you give to forget?”

It seemed like a strange question to Sherlock. He didn’t care though. If this man wanted to kill him and throw his body somewhere in a river or ditch more power to him. The boy shrugged and looked away, doing his best to make himself look small.

“If you follow me I can make you forget. Make you fly.” The man said turning and opening the door to a rundown apartment building and winking at the kid. Sherlock glanced up and down the street praying halfheartedly that someone would see him and stop him from following. That someone would care about a strange kid about to wonder into a dingy apartment building with a creepy man who reeked of alcohol and cat piss. But not a soul came walking down the alley way to stop him. It was like the universe was saying it didn’t care, so he followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for cliff hanger I felt bad for the uber long wait but this chapter has been hell. Microsoft word keeps eating my file and I got 6,000 words in and poof guess what you didn't really need to write this anyway. I hope you guys enjoy and the next part is even worse so I am sorry... Love Birdie


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dub-con, drug use.

Inside the building it was just as depressing as it was outside. Dim white fluorescents lit the linoleum covered floor and flickered off and on making the graffiti seem to stand out from the grimy walls. It reeked of sour milk and tuna mixed with the pungent smell of death that tickled at you nose hairs. 

Sherlock ignored every thought that told him to run. The man said he could make him forget. Even though some part of Sherlock knew there would be a price and that forgetting wasn’t ever possibly he had to try. If the dirty old man killed him in the process then he would be doing the boy a favor. 

The two climbed a winding staircase that seemed to dip in some places as if it would just fall apart, to a door covered in permanent marker and spray paint crowns and hearts. The man grumbled and fussed with his over coat pulling out a set of keys and unlocking the door so they could enter. 

When Sherlock entered he didn’t say a thing. His body was shaking from the sudden temperature change and just slightly, whether he admitted to it or not, fear. The small apartment was nothing more than a studio with an unmade queen bed, a torn up love seat and a foldable card table that seemed to double as a work space. Clothes and old Chinese takeout food boxes cluttered every surface along with magazines flipped open to show girls naked and on top of each other. “It’s not much,” The man said with a smile as he scurried about looking for something. “But its home.”

Sherlock just nodded in response doing his best to shy away into the corner next to the door. His body still ached with the pain from bruises and a massive head ache was just forming causes his thoughts to be jumbled. The small space was a perfect representation of the grimy man, cluttered, smelly and slightly disturbing. The boy thought trying not to stare at a centerfold that featured two young girls licking each other’s arses. “You… you said you could make me forget.” He managed to stutter out after closing his eyes. 

He heard several small crashes come from the small area that might have been advertised as a kitchen but was only a mini fridge and a microwave. A few clinks of bottles later than man’s gritty voice floated back across the studio. “Eager are we. Yeah yea I got some stuff for you. Just let you taste it.” 

Sherlock opened his eyes sleepily and swallowed hard at what he saw. The man was lounging on the beat up sofa holding a leather belt, syringe and shaking a clear bottle. Heroine, he figured not really caring what it was just that he could get it. He walked over in front of the couch and got on his knees. “I don’t have any money…” He admitted sheepishly keeping his gaze on the floor. 

The man’s hand came out to stroke the side of Sherlock’s cheek making small jitter’s climb up the teen’s spine. “I know, we can work that out. Just call me Uncle Bob kid. Uncle Bob ‘ll always take care of you.” The words were spoken like a sickly sweet pick up line and made him feel like he was dirty just sitting there but he ignored it and offered his arm up. “Eager are we.” The man chuckled and tightened the belt, then prepared the syringe, sticking it deep into Sherlock’s veins. It hurt for a brief moment but after the initial prick and fear it was like a cloud was lifted and his whole body felt light. Happy, he was happy. 

“Feels good huh?” Sherlock couldn’t focus on anything other than the floating happiness that was going through his body, really that was the only way to describe it. Nothing mattered, his father, John, his brother. Nothing matter because here in this moment his mind was racing full of good thoughts, his heart was racing and he just, it felt, good. He flung his head back and giggled. “God, I love their first times, it’s never as good after.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock said a few minutes later from the couch he managed to get himself up on. “Thank you so much.” He nuzzled his head against the man’s shoulder, groggily, room starting to spin and he just wanted to sleep. 

“Do you have money?” The drug dealer asked and stroked the boys dark curls softly, comfortingly. 

“You didn’t- I didn’t…” Uncle Bob hushed him, running a grime covered finger across Sherlock’s lips. 

“You don’t need money; we can work something else out.” His hands dipped down over Sherlock’s chest ignoring the pathetic struggles he was making. The fingers found Sherlock’s nipples and twisted one, then the other milking a small whimper from him. “Will you show me how thankful you are?” 

Sherlock didn’t understand what the man meant. Of course he was grateful, he hadn’t ever felt so happy. He looked up with a furled brow that was met with a soft laugh. “Virgin too, fuck it I am a lucky man.” A sudden realization settled upon Sherlock as the man shifted and something hard dragged across his thigh. He didn’t- he couldn’t, he started to squirm away only to be pulled further onto to Uncle Bob’s lap. 

“My dad has money, let me go home! I’ll get you money.” 

“I don’t want your daddy’s money.” 

“Please!” Sherlock begged, panic starting to crash through his chest, amplified just like the happiness. “I didn’t mean to!” 

He was hushed and his shirt pulled over his un-reacting body. Everything felt too slow and too fast; it was like time was no longer running linearly. One moment he was fully clothed being told to be a good little boy and the next he was laying completely nude over the arm of the couch. Tears were falling down his cheeks and he continued to plead with the man. If he went home there was money in the kitchen drawer, he could sneak in and give it to the man. Twenty-five bucks would cover his hit, it had to. It was all he had. 

“Would you look at that; this what you wanted to forget?” The drug dealer asked, running a hand down the purple bruises along Sherlock’s body. Sherlock keened and nodded feeling even more vulnerable than he ever had in his life. He wanted the cold hands to leave his body but he had to be a good boy. If he wasn’t it’d be worse. His clawed at the couch cushion when the hands slipped down to cradle his arse. “Shame ruinin’ sucha pretty little body.” One hand left only to come back wet and prod against Sherlock’s arse crack. 

“I’m sorry…”

“You aint in trouble kid, just can’t get stuff for free can we?” 

“No…” 

“S’right. I’m kind so I’ll make it gentle. Such a pretty virgin.” 

Sherlock didn’t say anything else. He did his best to not even cry as Bob shoved into him, as his hips were rammed rhythmically into the carpeted couch. He imagined that for the rest of his life he’d hear those breathy moans in his ear when he’d start to drift to sleep, he’d always be able to explain in great detail the weave pattern on the 1970’s Brixton furniture line love seat, and possibly worst of all is that every time a place started to smell a little too much like day old alcohol and cat urine he’d be able to feel the cold finger’s exploring his marred skin and the short but thick dick splitting the skin deep within him. 

When the man came, and the condom was tossed away Sherlock was allowed to get redressed. The high had long passed but Bob was nice enough to give him another shot, ‘free of charge’. Bob had a friend with a car and with his help they dropped the teenager off a few streets away from his house. It hurt to walk; it felt like his skin was chaffed and torn. It was but he couldn’t feel the blood running down his inner thighs. 

When he got home dawn was just breaking across the sky. His dad’s car was out of the drive way and the front and back doors locked tight. Sherlock was half tempted to curl up on the door step and just wait to receive another beating from his father when he was found, at least he’d be let in the house. That was until he remembered it was the 21st and his dad was in China on a business trip. 

Slowly he made his way up to the second floor balcony with a ladder he got from the shed. It hurt to lift his legs up and when he got half way he started to cry at the feeling of falling, falling and never stopping but he got into the main bedroom and that was far enough. He fell over and sobbed into the floor until he fell asleep. 

In the morning he called Bob at the number scribbled onto an old piece of newspaper he didn’t remember getting. He begged for more. Anything the man had to give him. When he gathered all the money he could find in his house he came up four hundred dollars short. Apparently the big homes stuck in the drug dealers mind because he was willing to give Sherlock a lot of his stock. 

The boy just figured he’d do what he did last time. Four hundred dollars or fifty it should work the same. Or so he figured. 

He met them in a local pub and he told them he was a bit short they laughed at him. He could pay up to a hundred dollars on ‘credits’ but he had to have cold hard cash. Sadly he agreed and paid for the drugs he could with ‘credits’ and the rest with the cash. 

When he paid both men at the same time they utilized both ends. Bob of course got the back and his friend, Sherlock never cared enough to get a name, got the front. It hurt more than the first time due to the tearing Sherlock had cleaned up earlier that morning. But they let him get high first so he didn’t care. 

He took all the hits he could before the hallucinations made it too hard to find his vein. Days went by and he continued hitting up until the stock ran dry. The highs never seemed to last and it didn’t matter how many times he injected it never made him as happy as the first night. Stray thoughts and memories kept breaking through. 

Each time he ran out he’d find something in his room to offer, a telescope his granddad gave him a few Christmases ago, dress shoes he got for a aunts wedding, but it was never enough, he always wound up being forced to pay in credits and after each time there were more and more things he wanted to forget so he’d call up sooner and sooner. 

It was almost ten days later when someone noticed he hadn’t gone to school in a while. His father was still in China and the office workers in his school just wrote him off as tagging along last minute. No one even bothered to give Mr. Holmes a call. The boy would be back in a month. The only person who started to think something was terribly wrong was John. 

He made his way over to the Holmes estate after the eleventh day. The car wasn’t in the drive and no lights were on inside but he could just feel something was wrong. He rang the doorbell and waited. 

Sherlock picked himself up off the bathroom floor where he fell asleep curled around the toilet. It was pitch black. Curtains drawn, lights off. The only light was coming from the green electric glow of the digital clock on the oven. With a groan he got up and stumbled his way to the door and wrenched it open. 

“Fuck off!” He screamed with his eyes squeezed shut to the daylight he hadn’t seen in a long time. 

“Sherlock!” 

He knew the voice. His eyes snapped open and he stumbled away. He was half naked, boxers covered in his own sick and only one sock left on. “Go away! I can’t hang out now. I just leave please.” He mimicked mockingly and started to shut the door but John caught it. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t know…” Sherlock didn’t have the strength to shut it against John pushing so he just turned and left. “Sher, I, why are all the lights off?” John reached out and found the front light switch and instantly wished he hadn’t. 

Used needles, small glass jars, latex and puddles of puke and trash covered the floor. There were knives shoved in a leather seat that faced the fireplace. What looked like expensive china was dusted through the living room. Sherlock’s violin was smashed against the steps and the boy himself was curled up in the corner preparing another hit to stop the headache that was coming on. 

“Did you do this?” 

“Fuck off!”

“Put that down!”

“Or what? You’ll beat me? Kill me?” Sherlock screamed and set down the drug so he could awkwardly pull himself to his feet. “You’ll rape me? Please John! Please I beg you to do it! That’s all I want!” He fell to his knees in front of the kid he had thought was his friend. His hands gripped tightly to the hem of John’s white school shirt. “Please John… Please, please, please, please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. Next part will be up soon. Happy American Thanksgiving!

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a very big wip. I am writing the forth chapter at the moment and soon I will have it up. I love comments good or bad, just let me know you're reading this so I have motivation to continue.


End file.
